


at least the war is over

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Coda, M/M, Spoilers, thing I wrote after the second viewing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the battles he fought this was the one he didn't want to lose. </p><p>Fortunately someone else had been thinking the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at least the war is over

**Author's Note:**

> I wish I could explore Clint's perceived guilt in greater detail but it's 1:50AM and I have class tomorrow morning.
> 
> Been a while since I wrote Avengers and C/C. Been _quite_ a while. Thank god for this goddamn beautiful movie.

She breaks it to him on the way back to base. They sit at the back of the jet, knees knocking against each other whenever they hit turbulence, and stare past the captain's shoulders at the clear blue sky. Then she presses her lips together as she glances away - to her right - and he braces himself. 

"Remember what I said when you asked how many you killed?" she begins. Her voice is low so that nobody else can hear above the whir of the jet's turbines but Rogers still twitches. "Whatever I'm about to say next, _don't_. Okay?"

The icy fingers reaching through his chest to his heart and his mind aren't anything like Loki's touch but the chill is just as numbing, just as immobilizing. He _knows_ what she's about to say.

"Fury found Coulson at the Cage, but..." She leans forward, elbows on her knees. "It was too late. They called it."

She's lying. She's telling the truth. That didn't-Phil didn't- "How?"

"Loki tricked Thor into the Cage and was about to drop him thirty thousand feet. Coulson tried to stop him."

Loki is on another jet, chained and muffled, watched over by Thor and Dr. Banner. Loki, who stole his mind and kept him away from where he was needed most, is still alive.

 _You're lying_ , he thinks but she's not. He knows her tells just as well as she can read his face.

"I'm sorry," she whispers and places her hand over his. He looks down at her bruised fingers as they wrap around his bloodied knuckles; there's a sting and an ache but they register as hollow echoes in his head.

Red boots in the edge of his periphery and he looks up at the captain. Rogers stares at him, then at Tasha, and then back to him. He expects questions - anyone can make an educated guess based on the one-sided conversation - but what he gets is a hand on his shoulder, right above a blue-black bruise. Then Rogers walks back to the cockpit and peers over the pilots' shoulders at the smoking Helicarrier and the glimpse of the carnage sends shivers of guilt down his back.

" _Don't_ , Clint," Tasha says.

* * *

Hill intercepts him on his way to Medical and silently hands him a deck of bloodstained trading cards. He remembers finding them in a binder on the shelf and Phil radiating nervous joy while saying he hoped to get the man behind the images to sign them. He remembers making a crack about selling them on eBay and having the binder yanked out of his hands, Phil holding it to his chest protectively and informing him that the couch is his tonight-

"Clint," Tasha says and he starts, accidentally bends the corner of one of the cards. She touches his elbow and pushes him down the hallway.

He tucks them away in his pocket and they weigh heavily the rest of the very long day.

* * *

"Once you finish overseeing the transfer you're both on indefinite leave," Director Fury tells them before they head out to the deck. He gives them both scrutinizing looks, daring them to protest. They're both workaholics; idling away frazzles their nerves. But they weren't trained for what had happened the past couple days - nobody was - and this time they accept his orders without a smart comment.

"How long?" he asks her as they strap in for the short ride down to Central Park.

"I give it two weeks before they call us in," she says. Her smile is forced.

He comes home to a dusty apartment. Motes float in the midmorning sunlight as he opens the blinds to reveal the city. This neighborhood is still intact, too many blocks away from the battle scene, and people still act like nothing happened, like aliens riding giant eels didn't come down from a gateway in the sky to flatten Manhattan and conquer the world. He leans on the windowsill, drumming his fingers, then curls his hands into fists and slams them onto the layers of dust. He leaves behind impressions on the sill as he turns sharply on his heels, grabs his duffel, and stalks into the bedroom.

It's empty, of course. The whole place is empty. He throws the bag onto the too-wide bed before heading to the bathroom but stops when he hears the distinct crinkling of paper. he turns back and picks up the bag to find a folded note.

His heart's in his throat, hammering away, as he fumbles at it with shaking fingers, and stares at the neat handwriting on SHIELD stationary.

_I did this because ~~we~~ the world needed the Avengers. It was my choice so please don't take it out on me. By the time you read this I should be done with the debriefing and will be home within four hours with paperwork, including a report on the effectiveness of Life-Model Decoys. Don't distract me. You're not getting out of it._

_And order pizza. Extra mushroom, extra cheese._

_phil_

He sits on the floor, the note partially wrinkled and half of the word "Decoys" bleeding black into the paper's fibers. He rubs the tears out of his eyes and tosses the note aside.

"Sonnuvabitch," he mutters.

* * *

He comes to on the floor of the bedroom with a crick in his neck, a sore back, and Phil sitting cross-legged next to him, looking exhausted compared to the flawless wrinkle-free suit he's wearing.

"So where's the pizza?" he asks nonchalantly, like just the other day he didn't program an LMD to stage his death and kickstart the Avengers.

Clint studies his warm smile and his warm eyes, and reaches up to pull Phil down for a kiss. Phil laughs into his mouth, tastes like he'd just chewed through a packet of spearmint gum.

"Pizza later," Clint mutters. "Nap first."

"Just a nap?" Phil asks.

He responds by clumsily pulling Phil down until he's half sprawled over him. Clint blows the tie off his mouth and buries his face in the crook of Phil's neck, breathes in his squeaky clean scent and feels his pulse vibrate under his skin.

"Just stay," he says quietly. 

And Phil does.


End file.
